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[zelo's fast rap]
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“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you
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I used to think kindness was from heaven,
grace falling down onto our unworthy souls.
But I've been to hell and back and I know now--
heaven is not real.
Kindness comes from violence.
Kindness comes from fear,
pain,
sorrow,
depths so unreachable
but by some unfathomable misfortune.
Kindness comes when you refuse to let anyone
feel the same way you once felt.
Kindness is something you make yourself
when you reach your own hand into the fiery lakes
to pull out the stranger whose name you don't even know
while god's hand has yet to be seen.
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"Doctor, por favor," the woman next to me
cries out for the umpteenth time
as she clutches at her belly.
The waiting room hears me
gasping for breath while my hands shake.
Does my head hurt because I can't breathe
or is it my imagination?
He listens to my lungs through a stethoscope
while I pray to whoever is listening
to please just help the old woman
on the gurney behind me.
The woman next to me
is still crying out, "Doctor, doctor,"
and I think my turn should be skipped.
The asthma might be killing me,
I panic and maybe that's the reason
my hands are still shaking.
Someone is crying in the seat diagonal from me
and I don't think life should be this way.
We struggle and struggle to stay alive
but eventually, we all will fail.
We should be singing around a fire,
carefree, happy, healthy,
not crying and hearing heart rate monitors
in the little tent set up outside the hospital
where a boy in a wheelchair is pushed by
and I use my inhaler again in vain,
but I think my turn should be skipped.
// Emergency Room
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Walking from the car
on my way from the cold,
I heard the trees' remaining leaves
shaking in the wind.
It felt like such a familiar sound.
It brought me back in time
three years,
back to when winter came
and I spent my afternoons
writing poetry on a tree stump
by the ocean
with the sound of wind
whispering to me
the words that I would write.
// February 14, 2010
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I've always felt that I am too much. There's too much of me to stay in one place, to stay still, to be calm. I've always felt that my legs wanted to run away, my arms wanted to fly, and I had to try my best to keep up with them.
There's an ocean in my bloodstream. I've never been a pond.
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I want to be put together,
a picture-perfect god
of the forests or the sea:
clothes without a wrinkle,
steps careful and deliberate,
every hair in place.
Instead, I am dripping
like water from a faucet
that's leaking, and
soon, I'll be run dry
with nothing left.
I am a thread coming loose,
a long string pulling apart,
dragging behind the garment
through the mud,
through the wind,
powerless.
Destined to hold something together,
but failing at the task.
Left to be a spectator
as I'm bruised on the
hard cement sidewalks.
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